The Game. Vanessa Fewings

did it have to be me who’d committed the heroic and yet highly illegal act?

      Tobias looked amused. “Free will is a privilege.”

      I pressed my hand to my heart. “You told me that right before your mom died in that plane crash she asked you to return the painting you were transporting. The one by Annibale Carracci, Madonna Enthroned with St. Matthew, to its rightful owner.” I reached out and squeezed his forearm. “You were nine years old. Do you see how it’s affected you?”

      “Let’s discuss St. Joan. The painting you just stole.”

      “I was merely taking a closer look. Checking her frame to authenticate her.”

      “And your findings?”

      A lump lodged in my throat and I tried to swallow.

      “The original was destroyed in a fire apparently?” he added. “Surely that provides some reassurance.”

      “Why are you doing this?”

      He pressed his firm chest against mine and I rested my hands to hold him at bay, and yet my fingers scrunched his shirt.

      Tobias leaned into my ear. “How did it feel when you held her?”

      Turning my head to look at St. Joan, deciphering if these inner tingles were coming from being this close to her again—

      His mouth brushed over my ear. “She belongs to you. Holding her felt right. Your connection is soul deep and worth more than her appraisal could ever be. You want her back.”

      I cursed myself for looking away.

      His last words to me in London hinted there was more to my family history and he knew a secret pertaining to her turning up at Christie’s auction house.

      I couldn’t stir the courage to ask him what he meant.

      Not yet.

      “I wouldn’t have taken her.”

      “Yes, you would.” He stepped back and the loss of him wrenched. “Jade, camera on.” He waited for confirmation and then refocused on me. “I hope you’ve enjoyed your time in LA, Ms. Leighton. We’ve enjoyed having you here.”

      “I’ve only been here a day.”

      “Pity to cut your visit short. Still, I know they need your certain set of skills back in London.” He gestured to the door. “Shall we?”

      Following him out, I walked beside him through the foyer and onward out the glass door exit and into the sun.

      “Tobias, please.” I tried to keep up with him.

      He refused to make eye contact and bowed his head, taking long strides as he tucked his hands into his trouser pockets. “How did you like Madame Paul Duchesne-Fournet?”

      “She’s breathtaking.”

      “Isn’t she? I knew you’d like her.”

      And I wanted desperately to go back in and enjoy her more with him beside me.

      The formality felt like a dagger to my heart.

      “Tobias, it was wonderful seeing you.” And I meant it. “I’ve missed you.”

      At the end of the walkway he paused before a Rolls-Royce Ghost idling on the curb and his gaze swept over me. He looked like he was about to speak and then seemed to think better of it, his attention turning to the falling green hills and beyond them to the speeding cars rushing along a busy freeway.

      “Say something,” I pleaded.

      “Marshall will drive you to the airport.”

      I glanced through the window at his chauffeur, the fortysomething, smartly dressed man with graying temples, waiting patiently.

      “I’m not leaving.”

      Tobias strolled to the back of the car and tapped the trunk.

      Marshall released the trunk and Tobias lifted it the rest of the way. There, lying in the trunk, was my red suitcase.

      My jaw dropped at his arrogance.

      “I’ve taken care of your stay at the Four Seasons. Your minibar bill nearly wiped me out.” He gave a wry grin until it turned serious. “My jet is fueled and on the runway. It’ll land at Heathrow.”

      “You can’t get rid of me.”

      “St. Joan of Arc will be waiting for you in London.”

      Oh, so this is how it was meant to end.

      My heart ached that it had come to this, him blackmailing me with my own painting. More than this, what we’d had now more than ever proved an illusion.

      “What will happen if I don’t get on your plane?” I searched his face for the answer.

      Was he going to expose St. Joan to the world if I didn’t comply? A sharp stab of fear hit me when I read that in his expression.

      He opened the rear door. “It’s over, Zara.”

      My heart shattered into a thousand pieces and I refused to look at him, bowing my head as I climbed into the back seat, throwing my handbag ahead of me onto the soft leather.

      His ironclad grip wrapped around my upper arm and he drew me out. Tobias yanked me toward him and cupped my face with his strong hands, crushing his lips to mine, and I surrendered, starved for him, needing his roughness. His mouth forced mine wider, his tongue feverishly lashing mine.

      I gasped my relief to be back in his arms, swooning at the sensation of our tongues sweeping together, his mouth raging against mine and then softening to console. His eyes closed as he sighed wantonly into my mouth. When his hand slipped to my lower spine and he yanked me against him, my sex throbbed, making me shudder with femininity, my soul soothed and yet aching with the dread of leaving him.

      He drew back. “Forgive me. I don’t know any other way.”

      “I will stop you.” My gaze lowered to his mouth.

      He ran his thumb over my bottom lip. “Why do you insist on destroying me?”

      “Because what you’re doing is wrong.”

      “I meant my heart, Zara.”

      My body trembled with this cruel need for him, as though my mind and body refused to agree this desire couldn’t be more wrong.

      “Go.” His lips curved into a smile. “Before I change my mind.”

      “What will happen if I stay?”

      He shook his head and nudged me into the car and closed the door to seal me inside.

      The Rolls drove me away from him.

      I peered out to watch Tobias walk back toward The Wilder, his sadness seemingly as torturous as mine. The way he scraped his fingers through his hair hinted at his confliction.

      Being wrenched away so suddenly made my chest tighten and I concentrated on taking slow, deep breaths to calm.

      “LAX won’t take long, ma’am,” Marshall piped up.

      “How long will it take to get there?” I forced a polite smile.

      “Half an hour. The 405 looks good. Would you like me to turn up the air-conditioning?”

      “No, thank you.” This dreadful chill was already making me tremble.

      I don’t want to leave.

      There was so much more to see and do and I’d always wanted to visit Rodeo Drive, I painfully mused, pop into Tiffany & Co., and maybe dine in one of the fine restaurants near my hotel, and then of course visit the private art galleries there.

      Slumping in my seat I pushed those superficial thoughts away and faced my anguish. I’d failed myself, failed Tobias, and I couldn’t bear the thought